The Wolf And The Healer
by MagpieSong
Summary: Just a short sad thing with Solas and Sirona Lavellan. This Inquisitor is named for the Celtic goddess of healing and fertility.
Sirona's mouth opened but sound couldn't exist. The centre of her brow was drawn so far upwards in desperate horror that it felt as if someone were pulling it over her skull. The flesh around her eyes tightened almost painfully, as if she were focussing on a book in near darkness, yet the world around her blurred as hot tears began to well.
She barely even saw his slowly retreating back, shoulders slumped in resignation to his own heartbreaking decision. She wanted to scream, to scream in rage, strike at him and claw the flesh from his body with nothing but her fingernails. But then, she wanted to wail like a child and collapse in on herself, to implode and slowly crush down into the earth until she became nothing at all.  
Her breaths quickened as she cradled her own chest, almost to the point where she couldn't draw in air at all. Soon enough, Sirona was hyperventilating. She held her breath a few times, trying to halt her own pace, but a wave of dizziness rushed over her, only making things worse.  
Her knees buckled, sinking into the soft, slightly damp soil, and her body folded up of its own accord.  
And then it started.  
First it was quiet; the strangled squeaks as she fought with all her might not to give in. Then, sobs of heartfelt agony began to wrack her small frame, slowly gaining momentum and volume until she was alternately gasping for air and wailing. Her hands went to her face and pressed in hard, trying in vain to drown some of the sound. Her own noise was heartbreaking. Just a reminder of what she felt right now, driving her to new heights of distress.  
Surely no one was out here. Surely it was just her now. Alone.  
Alone.  
She was screaming now. Screaming and shaking.  
At some point the tide started to change. Water crept up behind her form, now fetal on her side. The earth turned to mud, smearing on her reddened, puffy face. All the while, she just…cried. Cried until she was utterly spent, and an uneasy slumber took her.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

 _Sirona walked slowly through the weald, hands reaching out any tree or other plant that grew near her path. The world around her was filtered with a soft, green light and sheltered from whatever lay beyond by the dense canopy. It was serene, if not at least pleasant._  
 _The trees seemed to spread before her, great curtains of vines herding her down a path that seemed totally foreign, and yet possessed a strange sense of familiarity. Undergrowth bloomed forth from the earth itself, thickening behind her and ushering her into a secluded grotto._  
 _Water trickled into a small pool, echoing off the mossy rock walls that encased the small, private pool. A shelf of stone protruded forth from the muddy bank, just visible above a low layer of dense fog._  
 _As she stepped ever forwards, the streamy earthcloud swirled and rippled across the surface of the water and revealed a narrow path across to a small opening in the stone on the far side. Without so much as a second thought, she began to make her way across._  
 _Past the tight crack was, at first, only darkness, but a soft green light steadily grew before her until a vast wall of green veilfire. Beyond the border opened a large cavern, at the heart of which stood a great statue, its harsh features illuminated in the flickering light._  
 _Sirona's breath caught as emotions began to sink into her. Images played through her mind. A man. No, an elf. A small smile, a sudden kiss, a tender hug. All the while, a single name formed on her lips._  
 _"Fen'Harel", she whispered, almost forlornly. A tear made itself known in the corner of her eye, then tracked its poison sorrow down her cheek. A hand - her hand - reached up in numb realisation and traced part of the pine coloured vallaslin. She was the only one in her clan in generations to be marked in the name of the Dread Wolf, and as he Keeper had told, she was essentially an offering, an appeasement, as though to keep their people from the wrath of the so-called trickster god._  
 _But Sirona had come to know a different story of him. She had always wondered what reason he must have to seal away all their gods, including the forgotten ones. Surely he wasn't a simple fool and nothing more?_  
 _And Solas' insight into the corruption of ancient elves only served to further her theory that Fen'Harel had set in motion events that would criple the elven people, truly humble and equalise them._  
 _Solas._  
 _The name echoed in the cavern, born of her own yearning. The air began to rush and vibrate, tearing at her cloak from behind until it seemed to tear into graceful ribbons and flow from her body, floating and shrinking into crimson threads that looped around the forelegs of the monument._  
 _A second tear joined the first, then another, and another, until endlessly they streamed in silence down her face. She closed her eyes for a few moments, then turned slowly to leave. There was nothing here for her._  
 _Instead of the crevice she had entered through, the stone had knitted together to form a solid wall and standing between her and what was once the exit, was a magnificent wolf._  
 _Silver fur that glowed almost white as the sun, crimson threads bound around his forelegs, familiar marks around his face._  
 _And piercing, knowing, blue-grey eyes that bored through her exposed flesh, through her fragile heart. Through her very soul._

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

The world shattered. Sirona was sprawled in the mud on the bank of a small, secluded pool, filth smeared on her face where it had come to rest on the ground. She didn't open her eyes, even as hot, calloused hands felt her arm, then her throat.  
Then, footsteps, and a familiar voice called away from her. "She's over here!" Cassandra. It barely registered to Sirona. The world itself felt like a dream.  
Someone grunted and she was lifted from the slime with a thick slurping sound, then cradled to a scarred, naked chest. Her carrier's lumbering gait seemed almost to fling her back to the earth, yet somehow that didn't occur. The return home was a blur for Sirona. Very few words made sense, and there were few familiar noises. Birds, wind, a heavy door slamming open.  
Then bickering that grew steadily louder before falling suddenly silent.

The heavy hall doors slammed open, kicked in by one of Bull's enormous feet. In his arms at first seemed a pile of scrappy, filthy rags, but a double-take provided the discovery of Sirona. Guards scuttled out of his path, petrified of his thunderous expression as he strode deeper into the building.  
Cassandra, taking two steps for every one of his, followed closely just beyond his side. Her face was grim as she met Cullen and Josephine halfway through the ominously silent room. The questions began immediately, but she waved a gloved hand, hushing them once more. A clatter of gilded boots behind them heralded the arrival of Vivienne, practically running behind them in an effort to catch up.  
Bull stopped when she reached his range of vision, aware she wished to see for herself. Cassandra immediately began to argue that the Inquisitor needed bed rest, not to be put on display. The Enchanter opened her mouth to begin what would surely have been an incredibly heated argument when she spied Solas by an open door at the far end of the hall.  
His face a mask of horrified guilt, he stood there, rooted to the spot as Bull resumed his pace towards Sirona's quarters. Their eyes met and Vivienne's darkened with anger at what she saw. This was his doing.  
With an almost feral snarl, or something perhaps a little more civilised, her eyes bored into him, daring him to speak, to ask if she was okay. A dare, and also a threat. A threat that if this selfish elf were to come within ten feet of the Inquisitor again, well…he may just become more acquainted with the fade than he expected.  
Without a word, she then turned and followed the stagnant smell through a side door, determined to offer whatever assistance she could.

Sirona was bedridden for days. It seemed she had contracted some sort of sickness from exposure to the elements, and any that walked by her door often commented that they heard sounds of weeping echoing from within.  
When she finally did emerge from her quaters, it was with slumped shoulders, a trailing, dragging gait, and dark circles under her eyes. Her coat was askew and her hair unkempt. The Inquisitor looked quite a sight. Perhaps more alarming was that she walked the halls without greeting or speaking to another soul, then scaled the tavern roof by jumping from part of the ramparts and sat to watch the sun set in absolute silence.  
Though the left her to her own devices, she was never out of the sight of either Varric or Lelianna, and of this she was ever aware. When, finally, she did decide to return to reality, it was only to come to the rescue of someone who had left her world fractured and empty.  
Yelling was issuing from the top floor of the tavern, and it only grew louder the more she ignored it. Finally, it seemed something was not right, and so she slid down the shale roof, latched a hooked blade onto the rim and used it to swing through an open window.  
She was immediately met with a chaotic scene. Solas was held bodily against the wall beside her entry window, several inches above the floor. Blackwall's forearm was pressed hard into his throat, an angry snarl on his face. Solas himself had turned almost purple, his hands scrabbling at the Warden's heavy coat and mouthing muted words as Sera stood beside them, holding a razor-sharp arrow to his temple. Behind them had gathered several pilgrims, uncertain if they should pick a side.  
Sirona spun to the floor before anyone knew what was happening, collected Solas' fallen staff and gave a sudden, sharp strike right to Blackwall's ribs. He staggered to the side, choking and releasing the mage immediately. Sera's face went blank and she immediately blended through the gathering crowd to freedom.  
Blackwall looked up to see who had attacked, ready to defend himself, but faltered when he recognised Sirona's pallid, but enraged face. "You will not touch him", she snarled.  
The Warden almost opened his mouth to argue, but was silenced before he could form the words. He silently nodded, straightened, then turned and marched down the stairs, taking the remaining onlookers with him.  
Sirona turned to their target. His throat was already bruising, but at least his face had returned to its regular colour. She opened her mouth, but words wouldn't come, so she closed it again and hung her head in defeat.  
Solas' eyes betrayed his guilt and concern. He reached out a hand, hesitated, then placed it on her shoulder. She flinched at the gentle touch, an agonizing pang of emotion in her heart.  
"Dareth shiral, ma sa'lath", he whispered finally, and left.  
Sirona screwed up her face and held her breath, desperate not to burst into tears in the middle of the tavern. She balled her fists, sorely tempted to swing at the back of his retreating head. After a moment, she let the pent up air release from her lungs. She sighed and slid into a waiting chair.  
It was final. And over.


End file.
